I rode many miles in the car with Grandmother selling Avon, visiting family, and going fishing. Under her direction I tried to stay focused on the road while listening to her sing, "they crowned him with thorns, he was beaten with stripes, he was spit on and nailed to the tree, but the pain in his heart was the hardest to bare, The heart that was broken for me...” Still a song I sing often as I crisscross the state and sometimes the nation. She gazed across the fields with her elbow on the window sill as she sang, keeping time with the back of her hand against her lips, barely muffling the melody. Occasionally she would pause to tell me a story or correct my driving. Though I hold some regret from that day it remains one of my dearest memories; my last ride with Grandmother.
My intention had been to post my thoughts as I wrote them in 1998. They may not have been written well but they were originally only scribbled down for my review. Unfortunately I wasn't able to find those scribblings so this morning as I jet to Virginia for a week of presentations for work, I will attempt to recall that day for you and myself. I hope you find encouragement in events of that day.
It was March of 1998, the sun was shining and the air was getting warmer as we looked forward to the spring. Grandmother was staying with Uncle Shorty while Mom and Daddy were living in the motorhome and building a house near Lakeport. It was a transitioning time.
Angel was in grade school, so I took Levi (3) and Stacey (3 months) to visit with Grandmother on my way to Lakeport to see my mom and dad. She was at Uncle Shorty's house alone. She seemed weak and was having trouble swallowing due to the aortic aneurism putting pressure on her throat. She was confused; she referred to me as Anna, my cousin, but that wasn't really anything to be concerned about. She told me that Anna had given her some quilt scraps but then when Anna called she told her that someone gave her some quilts scraps but she couldn’t remember who. None of this seemed extremely abnormal as she often called people by the wrong name; Reba, Rosie, Anna, Kathy, Donna, Becky....I was usually last on the list of at least three generations.
Despite the names and the scraps we had a good conversation. She talked to Levi which wasn't always easy because of his speech problems. She played with his hair and bounced him on her knee. She held Stacey up on her lap and talked to him in a baby voice. She played "headacher, eye winker, tom tinker, nose dropper, mouth water..." She played peepie and all those silly games we often played with little babies. She asked about Angel.
I told her we were going over to Lakeport to see Mom and Daddy and asked did she want to ride along. At first she said no but then she said, "I believe I will".
I know exactly where I was on State Highway 149 near Lake Cherokee when it first occurred to me to ask. She had not been talking much other than the one sided conversions she held off and on with Levi and Stacey. She sang some but I got the impression that her throat hurt. In hindsight I can see that she was uncomfortable but at the time I thought maybe she was just reflecting as we drove. I struggled with the thought. I loved this woman as a grandmother and a friend; as a kindred soul and a travel mate. She was logistically and emotionally as close to me as my own mother. I grew up with her. As a young child she took me fishing at the lake, running trotlines and playing 42 half of the night. As a pre-teen she carried me and my friends to the movies and to the circus. She let me drive her Buick and her boat. I have often said that I didn't love her more than my cousins but I loved her different. She was the answer to many of the questions I asked myself. But that day the question I wanted to ask lumped up in my throat. We talked about many things through my lifetime and we had shared emotional memories and stories but on that day I established a limit, a barrier that I couldn't crawl over.
We arrived in Lakeport to find the construction progressing. We pulled up a lawn chair and visited for a couple of hours. Perhaps my original notes documented the topics and stories but I can't remember now.
What I do remember was loading the boys to go home. Grandmother was going to stay there with Mom and Daddy and I had to get back to get Angel from school. I backed out of the driveway without kissing my grandmother goodbye and that just was not acceptable. I turned around and drove back up the driveway, got out of the car, trekked across to the lawn chair to give her a kiss and tell her I loved her. I’m sure she knew but I needed to tell her anyway.
That was the last time I saw her before she stepped into her new eternal body. It was a difficult time. I shed many tears; I hurt like I never had.
Now, 17 years later, I focus on so many beautiful memories; the way she whistled and the way she carried her walking stick. The apron she wrapped around her waist while the biscuits were cooking. The coveralls she wore while she fished and the flowery sheets on her bed. I only hold one regret and only for the sole purpose of learning from my regrets. On that last ride I wanted to ask Grandmother to share with me the day that she accepted Jesus as her savior. Growing up with her I knew He was Lord of her life but I wanted her personal testimony. I wanted to tell my own kids. I wanted to know who led her to find Jesus and I wanted to hear her praise Him through the recalling of a time that must have been many years ago. I had never planned to write about it.
I was the youngest grandchild and often I didn't remember the times that my cousins recalled so gaily. I wanted that one for me. I would have filed it away in my memory with the story of how Aunt Ozella got the stick jabbed in her leg when the wheel fell off the wagon and the story of the day Gran died and Steve drove the truck into the ditch going to meet the ambulance. I wanted to file it for safe keeping in my memory like the pistol she stashed under the mattress of the bed Gran died on. I wanted to cherish it like the porcelain doll with the red velvet dress that she made; carry it like the buckeye she had deep in the bottom of her purse. I wanted to wrap the story around me and my boys like an old quilt as we bundled up on the couch.
Why hadn't I asked? I can only speculate now that by asking I thought I would be giving her permission to leave me. It seemed to have the weight of a final conversation of the final ride while the last song was sang.
I can't get that opportunity back. I don't lose sleep over it now but I do listen to the little voice in my heart a little more often and think of the last ride with grandmother.
If you don't have a story to tell about the day you asked Jesus to be your Savior, you can. It's as simple as ABC.
A. Admit that you are a sinner and that you need forgiveness
B. Believe that Jesus died on a cross for your sins, he paid for your forgiveness.
C. Confess your sins and ask thru a personal prayer for Jesus to save you, to come into your heart.
I hope that I will have an opportunity to ask you about your story one day.
In the top two
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